Straight from Helle

The Fugitive

Today marked the 6^th anniversary of my Grandma’s passing.  Instead of spending the day soaking my cheeks in tears and letting my heart ache uncontrollably, I wanted to reminisce about something that would make me smile. 

After several hours of scouring my mind, I had nothing.  I’m sure there was a multitude of funny little stories somewhere, hiding in the very dark recesses of my brain.  Maybe they are trapped from escaping by an impenetrable network of tightly woven neurons and receptors, resembling those thick, tent-like webs that caterpillars build in trees to protect their larva. Which lead me to ask…why in the world would my brain try to protect me from happy memories?

While I desperately searched for those stubborn memories, other ones leapt out: the phone call at 1:51 A.M.; lying wide awake in bed with thoughts of the next step; the immense feelings of guilt for not being there.  Then I jumped to the viewing, where I realized that I would not be able to take communion at the funeral because I had not been to confession in eleventy years and my panicked search for Father Black to help me resolve that, followed by his deep compassion as he absolved me of my sins in a small side room at the funeral home.

And then it came to me.  Grandma was put to rest in her favorite choice of attire – a nightgown.  Unless Grandma was going to Saturday evening Mass, she was at home, in her nightgown.  And being a child of the Depression, sometimes those nightgowns were worn well beyond the time they should have been retired to her dust rag pile.

The summer after I married and moved to California, we returned to Ohio for a visit.  One of the first stops I made was to see Grandma.  As my husband and I walked in the door, she greeted us in a flimsy, thread bare, silky salmon nightgown.  She was a bigger woman, and thus, had the matching bosom, so wearing a bra was also saved for Saturday Mass.  Apparently, the day we visited was not Saturday.

As we sat across from her and chatted, I noticed that her left breast was slowly creeping out of the side of her nightgown.  I tried to point out to Grandma that her girl was loose, but she was especially chatty that day and wouldn’t let me get a word in edgewise.  Every now and then I would try to point to the afflicted area, but Grandma talked and talked…

I looked over to my husband to see if he even noticed, which was pure silliness on my part, because boobs are like magnets to men’s eyes, even when they are attached to a 70 year-old body.  He squirmed and fiddled, doing everything he could to avoid looking at the runaway boob, while trying to hold a conversation with her.  We exchanged glances, and shared a non-verbal tête-à-tête, plotting on how to get leftie corralled back to safety.  With no other alternatives, I simply walked over to her and stuck the boob back into the barely there nightie.  Without missing a beat, Grandma continued to utter on as she glared at me like I was the one with the fugitive appendage.

We wrapped up our visit and she walked us to the door.  I leaned towards her for a hug, and as I backed away, I noticed the renegade boob had found its way out again!  It was then she reached for my husband to hug him good-bye.   A look of horror quickly invaded his face, as he realized there was no way out of hugging her, and in turn, touching the copious boob of his wife’s grandma.  He took it like a man, but as we walked to the car, I could tell he was traumatized by the encounter. 

I could barely contain my laughter.  I was used to seeing Grandma’s boobs pop out on occasion, and I figured he’d eventually get used to it, too.  Grandma didn’t seem to care that her girls were roaming free – and I guess after 70 years of dealing with them, she was tired of chasing them back to their rightful home. 

But, I couldn’t resist the opportunity to tease him.  “Honey,” I taunted, “next time we visit Grandma, try not to feel her up, OK?”

© 2010 Michelle French McAllister